Rescue
by Darkover
Summary: Javert is saved from suicide by Valjean, but it becomes more complicated than that, especially as it is not always clear who is saving whom.
1. Chapter 1

12

Title: "Rescue"

Author: Darkover

Rating: T, for mention of attempted suicide, prostitution, criminal acts, some violence

Disclaimer: The characters of "Les Miserables" were created by Victor Hugo, not by me, nor am I the author of the musical. I am merely borrowing the characters, and no attempt is made to claim otherwise. No violation of copyright is intended.

Summary: Javert is saved from suicide by Valjean, but it becomes more complicated than that, especially as it is not always clear who is saving whom.

Author's Note: While I have used some details from the book, such as the servant Toussaint, for the most part, I have purposely not adhered to the book in its entirety. There are many details from the novel that I have just disregarded; for example, in this story Javert did not submit his resignation before attempting suicide. Also, whenever I visualize Valjean or Javert, I see Hugh Jackman and Russell Crowe in those roles, so I suggest that the reader do otherwise.

~ooo0ooo~

Chapter One: "The Man Belongs to You"

Normally Valjean preferred nothing better than an evening at home with the girl whom he loved as a daughter, but rather than facing the questions he knew Cosette had about his actions of the last couple of days—including the fact that they were no longer going to leave France for England—he told her he needed a walk to clear his head. She offered to go with him, but as it was after dark, he thanked her but told Cosette he preferred that she remain home.

He walked to the Seine, and to his surprise there was a man standing atop the very edge of the bridge. Surprise turned to shock when he realized, in a flash of insight, both who the man was and what he was intending to do.

"Javert, step back!" he called out, racing toward the dark figure.

For a heart-stopping instant, he thought the Inspector would ignore him and just step out into the void anyway. As Javert slowly turned his head to face him, Valjean felt his blood go cold; never had he seen such an empty expression on the face of a living man, not even in the prison at Toulon. The Inspector stared at him and then said abruptly, "What is it to you what I do? What does it matter?"

Valjean took a few steps closer. "It matters to the police. You are still an Inspector—"

"No. I have failed in my duty," Javert said, sounding remote. "I should arrest you, but I cannot. You spared my life. You are a good man, but you are a criminal. Allowing you to continue at liberty is against the law, but arresting you would be unjust. I cannot reconcile the two."

"Javert, you are a Catholic!" Valjean said desperately, as he continued to edge close to the Inspector. "You know that your life is not yours to throw away!"

Javert continued to gaze at his old quarry with empty eyes. Whatever his decision might have been, Valjean did not know, as he did not wait to find out. The instant he was close enough, he grabbed the Inspector with both hands and yanked him away from the edge of the bridge, pulling Javert to him in a convulsive bear hug. The Inspector did not resist, but neither did he respond.

"Come with me," Valjean whispered in his old pursuer's ear. "It will be all right. You'll see."

~ooo0ooo~

Valjean got the two of them home somehow. There was no resistance from Javert, but neither was there any word spoken, nor any kind of a response from him. While it made the walk easier, it still worried Valjean. It was not like the Inspector to be so passive. By the time they reached Valjean's home, both Cosette and the servant were in their beds. Javert watched Valjean with dull eyes as the latter unlocked the door, and then allowed Valjean to lead him inside.

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?" Valjean asked gently.

Javert looked at him blankly, as if Valjean were speaking a foreign language, and then gave his head a marginal shake.

"Let us get you to bed, then," Valjean said. The continuing emptiness of the other man's expression frightened him. "Tonight you must sleep, and then tomorrow you must eat, understand?"

The Inspector did not answer. Valjean led him into the master bedroom. "Sit down."

Javert did not move. Valjean pushed him into a seated position on the edge of the bed, and then knelt to remove the other man's shoes. As Valjean performed this action, Javert continued to sit motionless, his eyes blank and lacking focus. He seemed to have shut down completely. Valjean rose, gently stripped the Inspector of his coat, hung it in the wardrobe, and then reached for the button on the other man's collar. It was only when he began to unfasten it that the Inspector showed some response; he blinked, eyes gaining some awareness for a moment as he pushed Valjean's hands away. "What are you doing?" he asked with an edge in his voice.

"Getting you ready for bed. You need to sleep," Valjean reminded him. He was actually a bit relieved to hear the undertone of anger in the other man's voice. Right now, he would almost have welcomed Javert snarling at him and calling him "scum." It was at least a sign of life.

"I am not a child! You will not undress me!"

"All right. Do it yourself, then. I shall fetch a nightshirt for you to wear." Valjean turned away, crossed the room to his dresser, opened a drawer, and looked through it until he found a clean nightshirt. When he turned back a moment later, the garment in hand, he gasped at what he saw. Javert had removed his shirt, and in so doing revealed that his torso and arms were covered with welts and bruises, as well as rope burns that remained on his neck and wrists.

"Dear God, man, what happened to you?" he cried.

Javert did not answer, did not even look in Valjean's direction as the latter crossed the room in two strides and dropped the nightshirt onto the bed. When Valjean ran his hands over Javert's chest however, attempting to assess the injuries, the Inspector did wince and emitted a faint hiss as his ribs were touched, although otherwise he made no sound.

"I shall call a doctor first thing in the morning," Valjean promised. "For now, I will bind these wounds, and then let you sleep."

Again, Javert did not answer. Valjean left the room to fetch what was needed. When he returned a few minutes later, the Inspector was still staring at nothing, and there was no sign that he had moved. He was like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

For a few minutes, Valjean concentrated solely on spreading liniment over the worst of the injuries, including the burns left by the ropes. He noticed that the Inspector flinched every time his ribs were touched, so he unrolled bandages and moved to bind those ribs carefully. "How did this happen, Inspector?" he asked quietly.

Typically, there was no response, but this time, Valjean was too agitated to let it pass. "Answer me, Javert. Who did this to you?"

Valjean had not spoken harshly, but the tone of command was what was needed. The part of Javert's brain that was conditioned to obey orders responded to it. Quietly, almost inaudibly, he answered; "The revolutionaries. When they found out I was a spy. They struck me with a truncheon, bound me, dragged me into a back room, and then…they all seemed to go mad for several minutes. They kicked me, struck me, over and over…one of them put a noose around my neck, pulled it tight in such a way that I was compelled to remain on my knees, but also that I had to remain upright as much as I could, else I would choke. They had been cursing and insulting me, but after they made me wear the noose and they saw me on my knees, they laughed. I think that was the worst part. When they laughed." He lapsed into silence once more.

"I'm sorry," was all Valjean could think of to say. He felt a sudden attack of dread. "Marius—did he join in doing this?"

"No. He stayed outside, at the barricades. I doubt if he was even aware it was happening. The blond boy, Enjolras, did not join in, either. He struck me with the truncheon, but he had not followed the others into the tavern, and so did not join the others when they were attacking me. When he heard the commotion, he came in and put a stop to it."

"I am sorry," Valjean said again. He stood and wiped his hands on a towel. "No one should be treated like that."

"I deserved it."

Valjean put his hands on the other man's slumped shoulders. "Inspector, you were only doing what you thought was right."

"No," Javert said quietly.

"Pardon?"

"I was a spy," Javert said, staring at the floor. "It was not right, but I could think of nothing else to do. They were revolutionaries, traitors, I told myself, they deserved no better, but still…spying is something I have always despised. I have never concealed myself, or who I am. I have always done my duty openly. But I could think of no other way of nipping the revolution in the bud. I thought that if I knew their secrets, then the revolutionaries would be overpowered quickly, with little or no loss of life. But that did not happen. I did no good. The uprising took place anyway, and so many died…my men, soldiers, those schoolboys, that _gamin_...It was all for nothing. I am nothing."

Valjean was dumbfounded. Up until this point, he had believed that Javert enforced the law with such single-minded obsession out of a sense of promoting his own power and prestige. Mentally, he chastised himself. He should have realized that a man so dedicated was not acting out of any sense of personal glory. "That is not true," he managed at last.

"No?" Javert lifted his eyes for a moment. "I was wrong about the approach I took to stopping the revolutionaries. I was wrong about you. I have been wrong about everything, it seems, all of my life. I must have done incalculable harm." Then his eyes went blank again as he once more lapsed into silence.

Valjean shook his head in wordless negation, but Javert was not looking at him, so he decided to resume the task of helping the man get the rest he so clearly needed. After a momentary hesitation, Valjean reached for the buttons on the other man's trousers. "Forgive me, Inspector…"

Javert again pushed his hands away. "No."

"You need to sleep," Valjean insisted again. "Let me help you into bed."

"I will do it myself," the Inspector said wearily. "Just go."

Valjean picked up the remaining bandages, liniment, and the rest of the items he had used to tend the other man's wounds, and left the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him.

While Javert was changing, Valjean went to the kitchen, found some milk that the servant Toussaint had set aside to make blancmange, poured it into a small pan, and put it on the stove to warm. When it had done so, he poured it into a wineglass, added a hefty dollop of brandy, and carried the wineglass back to the master bedroom. Once there, he rapped lightly to announce his entrance, and went in.

Javert was now wearing the nightshirt and had even gotten into the bed, but that seemed to have taken the last of his strength and initiative. The blank, unfocused look was back. Valjean extended the wineglass to him. "I have brought you this posset," he said gently. "It is warm milk and brandy, to make you drowsy and help you to sleep." Privately, Valjean doubted if help was necessary, as the Inspector already looked exhausted, but Valjean wanted the man to sleep through the night. It would not do for Javert to wake and then make another attempt to harm himself.

Javert's head made only a marginal turn in his host's direction, and he seemed barely aware of Valjean's presence. Certainly he made no attempt to accept the wineglass.

Belatedly recalling that explanations were not the way to get the Inspector to acquiesce, Valjean made it a command. "Drink," he said, as if expecting to be obeyed, and this time Javert took the wineglass and drained it. Valjean suspected he could have told his guest, "This is milk laced with arsenic," and the Inspector's reaction would have been the same. The dull-eyed, hopeless look was disturbing.

Valjean took the emptied wineglass and carried it back to the kitchen. When he returned to the bedroom, it was to find that the Inspector had fallen asleep. Silently and reverently Valjean thanked God and all the saints for that, but he also wondered what he should do. The bed was big enough for them both, but the good God alone knew what the Inspector's reaction would be should he awaken to find himself in bed with 24601. He, Valjean, could make up a pallet for himself on the floor—he had certainly slept in worse places, under far more difficult circumstances—but in the end, he decided to get into bed with Javert. That way, should the man awaken in the night and decide to make another attempt at suicide, at least his, Valjean's, body would be between Javert and the door.

Valjean undressed swiftly, put on a nightshirt, performed his nightly ablutions, and after gazing thoughtfully for a moment longer at the vulnerable, sleeping man who had once been the nemesis of his life, blew out the candles, carefully adjusted the bedclothes about them both, and said a silent prayer before closing his own eyes. _Grant that his health and his sanity may return, Gracious Lord. Help me to help him, if I can. _

~ooo0ooo~

Valjean had not been asleep long when he was awakened by a noise. Coming instantly to alertness—a trait developed and refined during the years he had been a prisoner—he was surprised to find it was his companion. Javert had curled up into a semi-fetal position, his body rigid and tense; he was making tiny whimpering sounds as his eyes flickered behind the closed lids. The Inspector clearly was in the grip of a nightmare.

Valjean's heart almost broke with pity. He knew from his own experience what it was like to have nightmares, and he knew it did not make a man any less of a man to suffer from such night terrors. He also recalled how Cosette, for weeks after having been removed from the dubious care of the Thenadiers, had whimpered and cried with bad dreams. So, Valjean, not knowing how else to help, did to the Inspector what he had done for his foster daughter at such times.

Lightly, he placed one hand on the other man's forehead, and then gently, so very gently, smoothed the dark hair back from the Inspector's brow as he whispered; "Sshh, Javert. Hush now, you are safe. Quite safe. Hush now, all will be well. Ssshhh…" A moment later, using the other hand, he began slowly, tenderly rubbing the other man's back in a soothing gesture.

After a few moments of this tender treatment, Javert quieted. His body relaxed and eased into a more comfortable position; his lips, which had been so tightly pressed together, as if to keep back the sounds of pain and fear even while unconscious, parted slightly as his breathing deepened and slowed, and he returned to a more normal sleep. Valjean watched him for a few moments longer, making certain the nightmare had dissipated, before turning over and returning to sleep himself. There were no more disturbances that night.

TBC…


	2. Chapter Two: My Thoughts Fly Apart

14

Title: "Rescue"

Author: Darkover

Rating: T

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Summary: See Chapter One.

~ooo0ooo~

Chapter Two: "My Thoughts Fly Apart"

Javert was still sleeping when Valjean awoke the following morning, so the latter was able to inform both Cosette and Toussaint that they had a guest who was still slumbering in the master bedroom. Valjean saw his foster daughter's eyes widen when she learned that the guest was none other than the famed and fearsome Inspector Javert, but she asked no questions. This was not really so surprising when one realized that Cosette's girlhood had been one of respecting the privacy of her foster father to the point of secrecy. When Valjean told her that the Inspector was ill and would be staying with them until further notice, she merely nodded distractedly. Her thoughts were more about Marius than anything else, and at any rate, she did not know that Javert was the man whom her foster-father had sought to avoid for so many years. Valjean saw no reason to enlighten her now.

Valjean handed the Inspector's uniform over to Toussaint and asked her to clean it. He then went out into the street, gave a coin to one of the _gamin _to summon a doctor, and another to a second boy to take a message to the Prefect of Police, M. Gisquet, Javert's superior, to inform Gisquet that the Inspector would not be reporting to work today. Valjean instructed the boy to tell the Police Prefect that the Inspector had been wounded in a clash with the revolutionaries, and until he healed, would be staying with "Monsieur Fauchelevent" (Valjean) at the latter's address.

Valjean and Cosette had breakfast together as usual, and then he gave in to the girl's entreaties to visit Marius and ascertain his condition. After taking a fiacre to the house of M. Gillenormand, they learned that Marius was still unconscious, and the grandfather too distracted with worry to ask too many questions about who M. Fauchelevent and his daughter were, much less why they were there. When the physician called in to attend Marius suggested that reading to the comatose young man might do some good, Cosette immediately volunteered, and M. Gillenormand accepted with almost pitiable gratitude. Valjean wished to return home to see to the other man who was lying wounded in his own house, so it was agreed that Cosette would remain by Marius' bedside for a time, and M. Gillenormand would send her home in a fiacre.

Valjean walked home. When he arrived he met the local doctor in the act of departing his house, having already examined the patient.

"Doctor, how is the Inspector?" Valjean asked.

"Difficult," the physician responded, not much bothering to conceal his exasperation.

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't seem to want to cooperate," the doctor said shortly, and then relented a little. "Inspector Javert did not truly resist treatment, but he seems to have the strange idea that he deserves his wounds. They are serious, but with good care, there is no reason to believe he will not recover. You did a good job of treating his injuries, M. Fauchelevent, but I rewrapped his ribs, and I left some laudanum with your servant for the pain, should you be able to convince the Inspector to take it." The doctor sighed and rolled his eyes at the patient's intransigence. "See if you can get a good meal into him as soon as possible, by the way. I asked him when he last ate, and apparently he hasn't eaten at all for at least the last two days. I shall send you my bill. Good day to you, Monsieur." With a nod, the physician set off.

Valjean entered the house, greeted Toussaint, told her that Mademoiselle Cosette would not return for at least an hour or two, and that she could expect the police inspector to continue to be their guest for a few days. He also instructed her to prepare breakfast for their guest. After some momentary discussion of what that meal should be comprised of, Valjean at last excused himself and continued on to the master bedroom.

He found Javert still clad in the nightshirt, sitting on the edge of the bed. The policeman's head lifted when the master of the house entered, and Valjean considered that to be a good sign. At least it meant the Inspector was aware of his surroundings, which had not been the case yesterday. "Good morning, Inspector," Valjean greeted him. "I spoke with the doctor as he was leaving, and he tells me your prognosis is good, provided you give yourself time to recover."

Javert nodded, showing no enthusiasm. "Thank you," he muttered. "But now I must go."

Valjean decided a firm hand was needed. "Javert, you are not going anywhere. You must give yourself time to rest and to heal, and I insist that you remain here until you do."

The Inspector sighed. "I mean that I need to relieve myself."

"Ah," Valjean said, feeling foolish. "That can be arranged, certainly."

After Valjean showed his guest where to go, he asked Toussaint to provide their guest with a basin of warm water, some cloths, a towel, and a comb for his morning ablutions. The Inspector soon returned, Valjean gave him some privacy to attend to these matters, and a few minutes later, he returned bearing the breakfast tray prepared by Toussaint. He rapped lightly on the doorjamb and entered the bedroom. "Ready for breakfast?"

Javert, standing at the wardrobe, turned at the knock. He was of course still clad in the borrowed nightshirt, which made him appear more vulnerable and thus, more human. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded.

"Being cleaned," Valjean said calmly. "Get back into bed, Inspector. You are still wounded, and in no condition to go anywhere just yet."

"I am not wounded." It came out in a growl; clearly the wolf was not gone completely.

"I beg to differ," Valjean said quietly; the two men's gazes met, with Javert looking away first. Both of them knew Valjean was not just referring to physical injury.

The flash of light was gone from the Inspector's eyes; he seemed to slump again, and he dispiritedly got back beneath the covers. "It does not matter," he said, his voice barely audible. "I have disgraced the uniform. I have no more right to wear it."

Valjean placed the tray on the bed before his guest. It contained a hearty meal, with a cup of hot tea for Javert, and a cup of hot chocolate for Valjean. The different beverage was to make certain the two cups did not get mixed up, although Valjean did not intend to share that fact with his guest, at least not until Javert had drunk the tea. "Here, Inspector. I know that you must be hungry. I have already had my breakfast, but I shall drink a cup of chocolate while you have yours."

The man in the bed stared down at the food but made no move to touch it.

"Javert," Valjean said, adopting the firm tone that had been the only thing that had worked the previous night. "Eat." He picked up the cup of chocolate from the tray, and sat down on a chair near the bed.

Even though privately Valjean felt certain the man must be ravenous, Javert was still reluctant to eat. He picked up the teacup, sipped from it, and put it back on the tray. He continued to stare down at the food, and only when his host made a "go ahead" gesture did he reluctantly pick up the utensils and begin eating.

At first the Inspector ate listlessly, only picking at the food, seemingly only half-aware of what he was doing. Still, even though he ate automatically, his appetite slowly improved as he went on, and Valjean, recalling experiences in the past when he had seen other men almost despair of life, recognized the behavior. The soul might wish for life to cease, but the body wished to live, and welcomed the sustenance. Valjean did not distract him with conversation, but contented himself with sipping from his own cup as the Inspector ate.

He spoke again only when Javert had finished the food. Valjean nodded at the cup of tea. "Do not forget to drink that, Inspector. It is ginger tea, a special gypsy blend."

Javert's head shot up, the utensils clattered on the empty plate, and the Inspector's blue eyes flashed with fury. "What are you saying, Valjean? Is that your idea of a joke?"

"No," Valjean said, astonished by the intensity of the response and the sudden anger in the face of his old pursuer, especially as he could discern no reason for it. "That is what my servant Toussaint told me, when I said I had a guest who was ill—that this tea is a special blend, relied upon by gypsies to heal wounds. I believe a hot drink will help you recover, and it has honey that will soothe your injured throat. Please drink it."

For an instant, the blue eyes in the tanned face bored into him, and then the Inspector seemed to deflate. "I…apologize, Valjean. I am in no position to object to anything you say. I shall leave soon, and no longer burden you with my presence."

His host shook his head. "Drink the tea."

Javert did so, draining the cup, keeping his gaze averted. When he had finished and placed the empty cup on the tray, Valjean asked gently; "Feeling better?"

"Somewhat, thank you," the Inspector mumbled, and then lifted his head to make eye contact. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because you need it."

"But I do not deserve it," Javert said, his voice rising. "Least of all from you, a man whom I have hunted for years. A man whose life my interference has nearly ruined."

"But you did not," Valjean said. "Inspector, I know that you were doing the right thing as you understood it. As I said that night at the barricades, you have done your duty, nothing more."

"'Nothing more,'" Javert whispered, as if to himself. "How right you are. And now I have failed even in that."

"Javert," Valjean said gently, "do you believe I do not understand the nature of despair?"

The Inspector looked at him. His expression was hard to read, and he did not reply, but neither was he ignoring his host's words.

"You thought you understood how the world worked," Valjean said softly. "You thought you knew men, and what you knew about them was that they were not good. And that they were incapable of change."

Javert said nothing, but his hands were trembling. When he saw Valjean's gaze upon them, he quickly lowered his hands and placed them flat on the bed, concealing them beneath the tray as much as he could, while apparently holding them still by an act of will.

The man who had once been known as Prisoner 24601 continued speaking. "I know all this, because once I felt the same. By the time I was released from prison, after nineteen years as a galley slave, I had known nothing but brutality and the company of people you would no doubt describe rather accurately as 'scum.'" He paused momentarily. Javert said nothing. Valjean continued swiftly, "My experiences on the outside did not improve either my outlook on life, or my opinion of my fellow men. I was so embittered, so angry that I hated the world and everyone in it. When at last I did encounter a man who showed me kindness and generosity, I repaid him by trying to steal his silver."

From the sudden change of expression on the Inspector's face, Valjean suspected he was thinking; _Once a thief, forever a thief. _If he was, however, he did not say so aloud, and the former 24601 went on with his account. 

"That man was Monseigneur Charles Myriel, Bishop of Digne, and never have I met, before or since, a kinder, more generous, more decent man. But at the time, all I could think of was that he had more than I did, so somehow that meant I was entitled to steal from him."

Javert's expression was not easy to read, but it definitely was not approving. Not that Valjean expected him to. He was thoroughly ashamed of his own actions at that time. Moreover, he was not telling this story to justify himself, but to help this man, so close to suicide the night before, understand that life sometimes could change for the better.

"I did not get far. I was not even a very good thief! Three of the local gendarmes caught me easily." He smiled with rueful, self-deprecating humor as he recalled the incident, although it had been intensely painful at the time. "You would have been proud of them, Inspector! One of them struck me with a truncheon…"

Javert looked down, and Valjean felt the burn of the other man's shame. Belatedly realizing with horrified embarrassment that the Inspector must have interpreted his words as an accusation of brutality, Valjean added hurriedly; "Because I foolishly resisted arrest. They had demanded an explanation of where I got the silver, and the only thing I could think of to tell them was that the Bishop had given the silver to me as a gift. Naturally, the gendarmes scorned this, dragged me back to that good man's house, and tried to return his property to him. Instead of condemning me and sending me back to prison, which would have been well within his rights, the Bishop told them I had spoken true! He not only claimed he had indeed given the silver to me, but he even added two very valuable candlesticks to the collection!" Javert's head lifted, a look of recognition appearing in his eyes, and Valjean nodded. "Yes, I believe you have seen those candlesticks. I have them to this day."

Putting down his own now-empty cup, Valjean sat forward a little, speaking urgently. "Do you understand why I am telling you this, Inspector? It was an epiphany for me. The world was not what I had thought it was—there was love, kindness, and decency. If a man as good as the Bishop existed, perhaps other good men did, too. At any rate, he thought *I* could be a good man, and I was determined to live up to the trust he had shown me."

"It is not the same," Javert said. His voice was hoarse, either because of the abrasions to his throat from the noose, or because he was trying to control some strong emotion.

"Of course it is—"

"No." The Inspector's voice, while weary to the point of exhaustion, still managed to sound implacable. "You were a thief, and in being one you may have harmed others, but you ruined no lives other than your own. How many lives have I ruined, in my dedication to the law? And yet, if I do not have the law, what do I have? What do I do?" There was anguish in the Inspector's eyes and in his voice. "Your experience was a good one, Valjean. Mine is not. Always, I have followed the rule of the law and considered that sufficient, no matter how difficult, but now I no longer know what is right and what is wrong! I am in a quandary—if I do not arrest you, I am failing in my duty, but how can I arrest a man who spared my life, who would not kill me even to preserve his own? If I do not follow the law, as I chose to do so long ago, then I am nothing. But if I continue to follow the law, I may be wrong again—I may do harm to those who do not deserve it, as I have done to you!"

"Inspector—"

"Do not call me that!" The raw pain in the other man's voice shocked Valjean. "Do you not understand? A policeman cannot pick and choose which laws he will enforce—if he does, he is one of the worst scoundrels of all! That is why I once told you that it is easy to be kind, but it is hard to be just." The words poured out of the Inspector in a desperate torrent. "I should do my duty, else I betray the law—but my duty is to arrest you, and I cannot do that! Not just because you spared my life, but because you are a good man. You are generous to the poor. You have raised a child who is not your own, the child of a dead street jade. You saved life of the Pontmercy boy. You spared my life, the life of the man whom any other man in your place would have regarded as an enemy! But still, you are a convict, guilty of violating your parole, and as a police Inspector, it is my duty to bring you in!"

"Javert!" Valjean held up the palms of his hands in a placating gesture. "All right, Javert. All right. I did not mean to upset you. Just relax. Take deep breaths."

The Inspector went on, still agitated. "I am in an untenable situation. I sought to remove myself from it—the only way I could, in honor, keep you safe without violating the rule of law, my duty, and what honor I have left—and then, you prevented me from doing so. I should return to that bridge—"

"_**No, **_Javert." Valjean's voice was gentle, but no longer placating, and very firm. "Hush, now. Ssshhh." He rose, removed the tray from the distraught man's lap, set it to one side on the dresser, and then returned to the bed to gently push the Inspector into a reclining position. "Sshh. Go back to sleep." He drew the bedclothes up to the injured man's chest. "You must rest if your wounds are to heal. We will talk again later."

The wounded man tried to sit up, only to fall back again. His eyes, already cloudy, were becoming heavy-lidded. "N-no…I have no right to be here…I should go…" Even as Javert spoke, his words were becoming slurred, and his head fell back on the pillow.

Valjean shook his head. "You are my guest, albeit a stubborn one. I know that you are still in pain, so I put a dose of laudanum in your tea. Please stop fighting it, and just let yourself sleep."

For an instant, anger flared in the Inspector's eyes, and he forced his lids open to glare up at Valjean. The latter said softly, "Ssshhh. Sleep," leaned down, and gently smoothed his guest's brow. Under the combined effect of this tender administration and the drowsiness brought on by the drug, Javert's eyes closed in spite of their owner's resistance. Valjean, scarcely aware of his intention until it became the deed, leaned over and kissed the weary man's brow, as if the Inspector were a child no older than Cosette had been.

Within moments, Javert's breathing indicated that he had fallen into a deep sleep. Valjean still continued to gaze down at him with thoughtful concern. _Javert, life can be good, I promise you. But I fear we have a long way to go before you understand that. Gracious Lord, help this man. And help me to help him. _

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

14

Title: "Rescue"

Author: Darkover

Rating: T

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Summary: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: "Cathay" is an old term for the country of China.

~ooo0ooo~

Chapter Three: "You Know Nothing of Javert"

Once Javert had fallen into the laudanum-induced sleep, Valjean left the house to walk to the police station. Earlier that day, he had given one of the _gamin _a coin to go inform the Prefect of Police that Inspector Javert would not be in to work today, but upon reflection, Valjean decided that a street urchin might not have been willing to come into such close contact with the police, especially with the Police Prefect. So Valjean decided to go see the man, M. Gisquet, himself, in order to make sure a proper excuse had been made for Javert's absence.

Valjean himself felt a faint shiver of apprehension as he darkened the door of the police headquarters; he had spent almost his entire adult life either running from the authorities or hoping to conceal himself from them, after all. But of course, no one save Javert was likely to be aware that M. Fauchelevent and Jean Valjean, formerly 24601, the man who broke his parole, were one and the same person—and the Inspector clearly was no longer desirous of arresting him. So, Valjean told the gendarmeout in front his business, sent in his card, and to his private astonishment, within minutes he was ushered through directly to M. Gisquet's office.

Valjean was even more surprised when the Prefect rose, bowed quickly, and shook his hand enthusiastically as he entered. "Greetings, M. Fauchelevent! Please sit down—I shall ring for coffee."

"That is not necessary," Valjean assured Gisquet, taking the chair that was offered. "I wish only to make certain that you knew that Inspector Javert, having received injuries in the line of duty in the recent uprising, is incapable of reporting to work for at least a few days. I sent such a message earlier today, but wished to be sure that it reached its destination. I would not have the Inspector penalized because of a misunderstanding."

M. Gisquet was nodding as he resumed his own seat. "The message arrived, Monsieur, but I am pleased to see you anyway. I seriously doubt if I should penalize the Inspector under any circumstances, for he is the best man I have, and the finest policeman I have ever known!"

"Ah, yes?" Valjean managed.

Gisquet smiled broadly and spoke enthusiastically. "I wish I had a dozen more like him, Monsieur! He is intelligent and dedicated, honest and incorruptible, determined and courageous. He never stops in the pursuit of justice, and I know of no man on earth who believes more firmly in the rule of law. Javert is not easily intimidated, and will arrest any man, high or low, if he believes that man to be guilty. I believe he would even arrest the King himself, if His Majesty had committed a crime!" Gisquet laughed, and Valjean smiled weakly. The Prefect added hurriedly, "Perhaps I should not make such a remark, Monsieur, in light of recent events, but I tell you most sincerely that I have never seen a man more dedicated to the pursuit of justice as Inspector Javert. He believes the law is the only protection any of us have, and without the law, there is chaos and destruction."

"That sounds like the Inspector," Valjean murmured.

"May I ask, Monsieur, how you and Inspector Javert know each other?"

"We have known each other since we first met many years ago," Valjean said, "but we lost contact, and only recently renewed our acquaintance." Inwardly, he reflected on the literal truth of that statement.

Fortunately, the Police Prefect seemed satisfied by that brief explanation. "I am glad to hear it, Monsieur. I am most pleased to learn that the Inspector has a friend. Particularly one he trusts sufficiently to stay with as a guest while he recovers from his injuries. I confess that I was quite startled to receive such a message this morning, as so far as I was aware, Javert had no close friends or intimates of any kind. If the man has a fault, it is that he keeps too much to himself. As I am sure you know if you have been a friend of his for very long, the Inspector hates to have things out of his control, and he has great difficulty trusting others. Even more than a policeman usually does," Gisquet added with good humor. "His background, I suppose."

"I do not understand."

Gisquet looked at him as if trying to decide whether or not to speak, and seemed to choose his next words with great care. "You know the circumstances of Javert's birth?"

"That he was born inside a jail?" Valjean asked, recalling the Inspector's angry words to him on the night of their confrontation at the hospital.

Gisquet nodded, seemingly a bit relieved that Valjean already knew this fact. "Yes. His mother was a gypsy fortuneteller, imprisoned for soothsaying. His father also was a criminal—a convict, a galley slave, I believe. Neither of them fit to raise a child, I fear."

Seeing the look of astonishment on Valjean's face, Gisquet seemed disquieted. "Pardon, Monsieur, I fear I have said too much. I would not have violated the Inspector's privacy, but I assumed from your remark that you were already privy to this information."

"I did not know the details. But it explains so much."

"It does, does it not?" The Prefect seemed a bit relieved that he had not gone too far. "Born and nursed in a prison cell, with two jailbirds for parents, neither of whom wanted him, or ever cared for him properly; spending his childhood, such as it was, in that prison, and being half-gypsy in the bargain—talk about being born in the gutter, Monsieur! And yet, Javert has lifted himself up, on the basis of clean living, determination, and merit alone. How many other men can say the same?"

"Not many," Valjean admitted.

"I tell you all this, Monsieur, because you are his friend, and as such, you should have some understanding of why the Inspector is—shall we say—as self-disciplined as he is." Gisquet hesitated, and then seemed to decide to finish his assessment of his most valued employee. "If the Inspector seems rigid, with an all-or-nothing approach to the law and to life, I know it is because of his great respect for the law. But I also suspect it is because at some level, he is still seeking to prove himself—and perhaps even to expunge the half-gypsy, convict-produced parts of himself."

"I see," Valjean said, and was afraid that he did. He stood up. "Thank you, M. le Prefect. I must not take up any more of your time."

The Police Prefect rose from his seat to exchange bows with Valjean. "Twice now, at my wife's suggestion, I have asked Inspector Javert to dinner at our home. But he always declines, I suspect because he believes that a subordinate should not socialize with a superior." Gisquet shook his head. "At least he has a friend in you, Monsieur."

Valjean thanked the Prefect for the latter's time and then took a long walk to allow himself to think, before continuing his journey back to his home. He was in a most thoughtful mood.

_For most of my life, I did not see Javert as a man, as a human being, but rather as an unstoppable force, a living personification of the law. A creature without heart or soul. But all that has changed since the night I saw Javert on his knees in that tavern, bleeding, a noose around his neck. I admit I felt a certain unchristian satisfaction at seeing my old adversary brought low, but even then, I knew it would be wrong to kill him. And now, the Prefect not only tells me how much he admires the man's character, he tells me that the Inspector was the unwanted child of a gypsy soothsayer for a mother and a convict father. So, who am I to judge this man? For such a long time, I hated the world and everyone in it, because I felt it had not treated me fairly. How fairly has it ever treated Javert? If he has no charity for others, why should he? Who has ever shown charity to him? I doubt if he was ever so fortunate as to encounter anyone like Bishop Myriel. And being a policeman for so many years has shown him only the worst Mankind has to offer, and on a regular basis. Does Javert know how to love? If he does not, again, who would have taught him, how should he have learned it? I would not have learned to love, had Cosette not entered my life…. _

Valjean realized that saving the Inspector's life was going to be more complicated than just pulling the man from the parapet of a bridge.

Toussaint greeted him with a smile as he entered the house, and handed Valjean a rosary, telling him that she had found it in the Inspector's pockets, along with a wallet containing an identification card, a single franc, and a few _sous. _Valjean absently took the wallet and its contents from his servant, assuring her he would return them to their owner. But when he accepted the rosary from her, he held it in the palm of his hand for a long moment, just staring down at it. He felt certain it was the same rosary he had so casually bestowed upon the Inspector years ago, when Javert had first appeared at "Madeleine's" factory. Plainly the Inspector had not only kept it, but he had continued to carry the rosary all this time. Valjean did not know what to make of that, but he had the strange feeling there was something significant about the fact. Carefully, he put the items in his own pocket for safekeeping.

Toussaint had finished hanging up his hat and coat, and she was telling him Monsieur le Inspecteur was awake now, and seated in the parlor with Mademoiselle Cosette, who had recently returned. At this statement, Valjean looked at Toussaint sharply, his heart began to pound more quickly, and he hastened to the closed doors of the parlor, fearful of how his old adversary might behave toward the young girl.

He need not have worried. Javert, now fully dressed, was seated in a chair across from Cosette, who was reading aloud to their guest. She looked up from her book and smiled at her foster-father as he entered. "Papa! Where have you been? The Inspector and I have been enjoying poetry." She glanced back at their guest, favoring him with a smile as well, and to Valjean's astonishment, Javert gave her a smile in return. Not only did it make the man appear years younger, but it was like watching an Inquisitor being entertained by a kitten.

The girl did not wait for an answer. "Papa, may I go visit Marius tomorrow? I do enjoy reading to the Inspector—" Here, she gave Javert that sweet smile again—"but I should like to do what I can to further Marius' recovery."

Valjean hesitated. "I don't know, Cosette. It may be too soon…"

"Please, Papa!" she begged.

Javert said nothing, but he was watching them both closely.

"We will discuss it tomorrow," Valjean hedged. "Now, it must be almost time for luncheon. Inspector, you will join us, of course." The last sentence was politely phrased, but the tone indicated it was not a request. Valjean did not believe it was good for Javert to be on his own just yet.

Javert looked at him, expression unreadable. "No. I should…"

Cosette, looking from one man to the other, was perceptive enough to pick up on the undercurrent of emotions, even if she did not completely understand the cause of those feelings or what they were. With gentle kindness, she leaned over and placed one delicate hand lightly on Javert's arm. "Please do join us, Inspector. Papa and I so seldom have guests, and we would enjoy your company."

Javert stared down at her hand on his arm for a moment as if he had no idea why it was there, but then he raised his eyes to gaze on her smiling face. Again he smiled, although in such a way that it seemed he was not used to doing so, and nodded slightly. "Thank you, Mademoiselle. I accept." If Cosette noticed that the last two words seemed a trifle forced, she did not let on.

As Javert rose to his feet, he even offered the girl his arm to escort her into the dining room, an action which made Valjean blink in surprise. He would never have believed the Inspector capable of such a polite, even courtly gesture. Not that Javert, now back in uniform, did not look impressive; Toussaint had done well in cleaning it. She had brushed it beautifully, and shined the shoes brilliantly; the Inspector's collar was a new one, his shirt was freshly laundered, and even the epaulettes were neatly brushed and arranged on his shoulders. Nevertheless, Valjean was left with the impression that something was not quite complete about the uniform.

Aloud, almost without conscious thought, he asked, "Inspector, where is your medal?" Javert turned his gaze in Valjean's direction, and the latter touched his own left breast to indicate what he meant; the medal that once had rested over Javert's heart was no longer there.

"I gave it to someone more worthy," Javert replied, somewhat cryptically, and then he turned his attention back to Cosette, who was indicating the direction of the dining room. Valjean followed, in a more pensive mood than ever.

Once seated at the table, the two men gazed at each other, although at first neither said a word. Cosette glanced from one to the other, and then said; "I believe you will enjoy the soup, Inspector. Our Toussaint is an excellent cook." The servant, in the act of presenting the first course, beamed at this praise.

"I am sure," Javert said quietly, again with a tentative smile at Cosette.

The young girl glanced again at her foster-father, but even after the soup bowls were filled, neither man attempted conversation, so she spoke again. "Papa, the Inspector is so appreciative of poetry, and he was kind enough to say that I have a voice like a lark. He is so gallant, I wonder that you have not had him as a guest before!" Her voice went up ever so slightly at the end, and she gazed at her foster-father questioningly. Valjean knew what she was really asking was why if he knew Javert, as he seemed to, the Inspector had never before visited them, but Valjean pretended not to understand the implied question.

The meal continued. For Valjean, having luncheon with his former nemesis was a rather surreal experience. How the Inspector felt about it, the former 24601 could not tell. Javert ate the meal politely enough, if with no outward enthusiasm, showing little expression in either his face or his voice. Most of what slight emotion he did allow himself to show was directed toward Cosette. At one point, noticing the captivated way the Inspector listened to the young girl even when she was addressing remarks to her papa or to the servant, Valjean found himself thinking in astonishment; _He enjoys listening to the sound of her voice. _The Inspector was revealing characteristics which, before today, Valjean would never have dreamed the man possessed, or even was capable of having.

Indeed, it was Cosette who made the meal a pleasant one, for with a skill that might have been envied by many a hostess of a salon, she kept the conversation going. Never did she get too personal, or make anyone uncomfortable. She even managed to get her papa and the Inspector to exchange a few polite, if stilted, comments with each other.

Eventually luncheon was finished, and they all rose to allow Toussaint to clear the table, removing themselves from the dining room and entering the foyer.

"Excuse me, Papa, I shall return as soon as I change," Cosette said, and then paused before leaving to go to her room. "Inspector, will you join us on our walk?"

Javert seemed momentarily nonplussed, as if the idea of taking a walk for pleasure were a foreign concept to him.

"Come with us, Inspector," Valjean said. He would have preferred it was just himself and his daughter, as usual, but he deemed it unwise to leave the Inspector on his own just yet. Again, the words were phrased politely enough, but Valjean made it clear it was not truly a request. "Cosette, go change, and we shall wait for you here."

"Yes, Papa." The girl left the foyer.

"I should take my leave now," Javert said, no longer making eye contact.

"Inspector, you are still not well," Valjean began. "I wish for you to continue as my guest."

"You are not responsible for me!" the other man snarled, with a trace of the wolf that still seemed to be his persona.

"Am I not?" Valjean said mildly. "I once read a most interesting book on the customs of the people of Cathay. It seems that among them, if a man saves the life of another, the life of the one he has saved is considered to be his responsibility from that day forward."

"Well, this is not Cathay," Javert snapped, "and I will not be beholden to you. I did not ask you to interfere."

"Perhaps God did," Valjean said gently. "Inspector, I do not wish to leave you alone. I fear that you may again attempt to harm yourself—"

Javert took a step toward him, looking furious. "What if I do? Will you drug me again? I am not your responsibility, nor will I be an object of your pity!"

The older man lifted his hands, palm outwards, in a placating gesture. "Peace, Javert. It is only a walk. Come with us. Please."

"I am ready, Papa," Cosette's voice broke into the men's conversation. She was in the doorway, clad in a dress for the street, a shawl draped about her shoulders, a bonnet on her golden head, and lace gloves on the dainty hands she was using to carry a parasol. She looked a bit anxiously at the two men, and Valjean wondered how much she had heard of the words he and his old pursuer had exchanged.

Javert's gaze went to her briefly, and then back to Valjean. He took a deep breath, and let it out again, unclenching his fists before giving Valjean a grudging nod.

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4: I Am From the Gutter, Too

22

Title: "Rescue"

Author: Darkover

Rating: T

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Summary: See Chapter One.

~ooo0ooo~

Chapter Four: "I Am From the Gutter, Too"

Valjean and his foster daughter walked at their usual leisurely pace, Cosette with her hand on her father's arm. Javert followed, or at least Valjean assumed the Inspector was still following. He trailed behind father and daughter like a sulky adolescent forced to endure the company of his parents.

The sun had ducked behind some clouds almost as soon as they had left the house, so Cosette did not bother to raise her parasol, but she used it to gesture to some flowers growing in a nearby window box. "What lovely blossoms, Papa! Inspector, have you ever seen the like?" Cosette added the last remark with a backward glance and a smile, in what was clearly an attempt to include Javert.

"They are indeed lovely, Mademoiselle," Javert said, in a tone more polite than enthusiastic.

But as they continued on their walk, such signs of bourgeoisie living became fewer and far between; they were entering the less-affluent areas. Valjean, as usual, pulled out his purse and handed a few coins to his daughter so that they could both distribute alms. At the sight of the purse, beggars began to appear, and several approached them with a sort of fawning eagerness. Valjean pretended not to hear the snort of derision behind him and Cosette as they handed out money to those who seemed to need it most. One waif of a girl who approached Valjean appeared particularly pathetic.

"Please, Monsieur, spare something for my mother and baby brother? _Maman _gave birth to him just this morning, and she is too weak to have milk for him, she has not even stopped bleeding!"

"She is still bleeding?" Valjean echoed, concerned. "Where is your mother, child?"

"This way, M'sieur!" The girl ducked down a darkened alleyway.

"Come, Cosette, the poor woman may feel more comfortable with another lady present," Valjean said, placing his hand over his daughter's as it rested on his sleeve. Cosette nodded, her concern as great as her father's, her hand tightening on his arm.

"Wait!"

Valjean ignored both the Inspector's call and the warning note in the other man's voice as he and his daughter hurried to follow the young girl into the alley.

Once inside, there was no sign of the girl, or of any woman, but two brutal-looking young men immediately stepped forward. "We'll take that purse, Monsieur. And the girl, too!"

"No!" Valjean immediately placed himself between his daughter and the men. Cosette screamed as they grabbed her father's arms.

"Shut her up!" the first thug ordered, but that was as far as he got. At the mouth of the alley, looming up from behind Cosette, came the Inspector. Snatching the unopened parasol from the girl's hand, Javert whipped it around in a vicious arc to smash the first attacker in the face. The ivory handle struck the bridge of his nose hard enough to break it, causing him to scream as the blood spurted out copiously. Javert did not even pause, but whipped around to drive the point of the parasol into the groin of the second man, whose shriek in response to this action made the cry of the first thug seem like a whimper by comparison. Valjean, pulling himself free, shoved the young men away from his daughter and pulled Cosette to safety while Javert returned his attention to the thug with the bloody nose. Once again using the point of the parasol, he drove it into the solar plexus of this first man, forcing all the breath out of him in a wheeze and making him double over. Javert then kicked the legs out from beneath the thug with the wounded groin, so that both of the young men fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Javert stood over them, continuing to clutch the parasol he had utilized so effectively as a weapon, but he did not need to apply it again; neither of the two thugs was inclined to offer any further resistance. The fight had begun and was over in less than a minute.

There were the sound of pounding footsteps, and two young gendarmes, their truncheons at the ready, thrust their way into the alley. "Mademoiselle! We heard a scream, are you hurt?" the first, a young man with blond hair, said to Cosette. Then, catching sight of her father, who was holding her protectively, the blond gendarme directed his next question to Valjean. "Monsieur! What has happened here?"

The second gendarme, equally young but with dark hair and a slightly burlier build, had caught sight of the uniformed figure standing over the two men on the ground. He saw and recognized both the uniform and its wearer. "Inspector Javert!" he said, awed. Javert was something of a legend to many of the younger men on the police force, and this dark-haired young man was no exception.

"Arrest these two men," the Inspector said, indicating the figures on the ground. "They attempted to rob and assault this gentleman and his daughter, and to violate the young lady." Cosette hid her face against her father's shoulder.

"Javert!" Valjean hissed. The Inspector looked at him.

"Charge them also with attempted assault upon a police inspector," he finished. "Take them to the station. As I saw the whole thing, I can give you my statement later. This gentleman wishes to take his daughter home, as she has been through quite an ordeal. There is no need for either of them to be involved any further."

The blond gendarme blinked in surprise, but merely said, "Yes sir." He and his partner had already searched the two thugs and manacled them; the burly gendarme was snarling at them to get up and get moving. He had found wicked-looking knives on the persons of both thugs, which did not make him feel more charitable towards them. The gendarmes hustled the wounded miscreants out of the alley and in the direction of the police station.

Together, Valjean, Cosette, and the Inspector cleared the alley and returned to the street. The sun had come out, and all three of them instinctively lifted their faces to the blue sky. Javert was still holding the parasol. It should have looked odd. It did not. In his hands, it looked like what it was, at least when he was wielding it: a weapon.

"Thank you, Inspector," Valjean murmured, grateful not just for the other man's actions, but for keeping him—Valjean—and an already-frightened Cosette out of any further contact with either the two thugs or the police.

Javert nodded, and then almost casually handed the parasol back to Cosette. "Thank you, Mademoiselle. Your parasol was not the same as my truncheon, but it was effective," he observed with a touch of satisfaction.

It was that remark, coupled with the Inspector's complete lack of concern for personal safety, which rankled Valjean. He could not help but be apprehensive at how willingly the other man had risked being hurt; his concern came out so forcefully that it sounded like anger. "Javert, are you mad? Those two men could have been much more heavily armed, and both are younger than you!"

"Do you expect me to see a crime committed before my eyes and do nothing about it?" the Inspector countered.

"I expect you to refrain from getting yourself killed!" Valjean was still too upset to be reasonable. "Do not think I cannot see what you were trying to do, Inspector! There is more than one way of committing suicide!"

"You walk down a dark alley on an unsafe street with a pretty young girl on your arm, a fat purse hanging from the other, and you call *me* suicidal?" Javert snarled.

"Please, stop!" a female voice begged.

The two men abruptly fell silent and stared at Cosette. She was white-faced and still clearly shaken as she entreated them, although she spoke with determination, clutching her father's arm firmly. "Please, Papa, Inspector, stop quarrelling. You are only shouting at each other because you are friends, and each is worried that the other might come to harm, I know, but that is the very reason why you should not shout at each other. Friends should show each other kindness and understanding."

The two men turned their stares from the girl to each other. _She sees us as friends? _And then, right on the heels of that thought; _Are we not? Would we inspire such emotion in each other, if we did not care about the other's welfare? _Much the same thoughts having occurred simultaneously to them both, they both hastily looked away.

"Also, I confess to being rather frightened," Cosette finished, a bit tremulously. "Papa, please, may we go home now?"

Instantly remorseful, Valjean took her small hand and kissed it. "Of course, my darling. I am so sorry I exposed you to this."

"You should be," Javert growled. Valjean shot him a dark look. Cosette stepped up, and took hold of each man's arm, so that she stood between them while simultaneously drawing them together.

"Inspector, I am quite remiss—I have not thanked you for your courage in fighting off those men. I am most grateful," she told Javert, and then looked at her father. "Papa, as always, you were there for me, and your first thought was to protect me. You are both so brave!" she assured them, with a smile that was as sweet as she was beautiful. She kissed her father's cheek, and then turned to smile again at the Inspector. "Thank the good God none of us were harmed. So let us not speak anymore about it."

Javert gazed down at her. "Of course, Mademoiselle," he said, a bit gruffly, although he shot a look at her father over her head that suggested he might still have a great deal to say to Valjean on the subject at a later time. "I have no wish to upset you further."

"Nor I," Valjean said, tucking his daughter's arm all the more firmly into the crook of his own. "Let us all go home now."

Javert made a start to move off in another direction, but Cosette retained her hold upon his arm. "Inspector, where are you going?" she asked guilelessly. "Surely, you must come back home with us." Next to her, Valjean nodded.

Javert seemed to want to pull away, but he would have had to exercise force, which he was clearly unwilling to exert against the young girl. He closed his mouth and nodded in return. The three of them set off down the street to return to Valjean's house.

When they reached home, Cosette excused herself to go to her room. Valjean, after urging the girl to rest until it was time for dinner, asked Javert to join him in the parlor. The curtains were still open from this morning, and perhaps because the evenings were cool, Toussaint had built a fire in the hearth. Valjean took his customary seat, the easy chair that Javert had occupied that morning when listening to Cosette read poetry, and then indicated the second chair that was opposite his own, near the sofa. "Sit down, Inspector."

Warily, Javert seated himself in the chair. "Do not think you can reprimand me, Valjean. You are no longer Monsieur le Maire."

"And when we spoke this morning, you would have had me believe that you are no longer a policeman," his host countered. "Your recent actions seem to contradict that idea."

"I did what was necessary."

"Quite so, and I am grateful," Valjean said sincerely. "You helped not only me, but far more importantly, you protected Cosette. I merely wish to point out that when you did so, you were acting as a police inspector, were you not? There would seem to still be some good you can continue to do by remaining in your occupation."

Javert rose to pace the room. "Perhaps. That does not alter the fact that I made your life miserable for many years. Or that when it came to arrest you, when I had to choose between my duty and you, I chose…" He fell silent, but the word _**you, **_while unspoken, hung between them as plainly as if he had announced it aloud.

"You are a very good policeman, Inspector—"

Javert stopped dead, glaring at the older man. "Do not patronize me, Valjean!"

"I'm not," the latter said, feeling helpless to convince the Inspector otherwise. This argument was rapidly becoming a circular one, but thinking about what Javert had almost said—and things he had said earlier, but which Valjean had not at the time comprehended fully—made Valjean pause and think hard for a moment.

"Is *that* why you were going to throw yourself into the Seine? Because you felt it was a choice between either arresting me, or violating your duty?"

Javert's expression took on a cornered, almost desperate look.

"And the only solution you could contrive was to remove yourself from the situation entirely?" Valjean pressed. Javert looked away. "Oh, dear God," the older man breathed. "You were going to kill yourself as a way of protecting me…"

"Change the subject, Valjean," the Inspector snarled.

_He is still a wolf. And it is never wise to corner a wolf. _Then, on the heels of that thought: _No, not a wolf. He is a man. Allow him the dignity of one. _"All right," Valjean said aloud. "You told me once that you were born inside a jail. M. le Prefect let me know that your mother was a gypsy fortune teller, and your father a convict in the galleys."

"Gisquet always has talked too much for a policeman. How he managed to become M. le Prefect is a mystery in itself," Javert muttered, then glowered at his host. "What of it?"

"Do you think…" Valjean spoke like a man walking upon eggshells. "Do you suppose that might have something to do with why you became a policeman?"

"Yes, of course it did!" Javert snapped. "I learned from birth that I could be as they were, or I could choose the side of goodness and right. I could preserve and protect the law. Becoming a prison guard, and then a policeman, was the only choice I ever truly had. That was as close as a half-gypsy bastard could hope to come to being a part of society!"

Valjean winced. "Please, Javert. Do not speak of yourself like that."

The Inspector shrugged. "Why should I not? It is a fact. Oh, don't look like at me like that, Valjean. I heard far worse epithets applied to me even in my earliest childhood. For a time, I even thought 'Whoreson' was my Christian name."

"What *is* your Christian name?"

The Inspector looked at him, his expression unreadable.

"Surely you have one?" Valjean smiled at his guest. "Come now, Javert, whatever it is, it cannot be that bad."

The other man spoke tonelessly. "'Male Infant' Javert."

For a moment, Valjean was too shocked to continue. He had been born and raised in Faverolles, among peasants, where the birth of a child was all too often regarded as yet another mouth to feed. But even among such people, even stillborn infants were given names and baptized before being consigned to the earth. That a mother, that parents could produce a living, healthy child and not bother to give him a name, was almost beyond the comprehension of the former 24601. "Your parents…" he said aloud, not able to keep the stunned disbelief from his voice. "They did not name you?"

The Inspector shrugged. "I was not wanted, Valjean. My mother got careless."

"But…" the former 24601 could scarcely form words. So far as Jean Valjean was concerned, one of the worst things that had been done to him when he was made a prisoner was that he was stripped of his name. To strip a human being of his or her name was to remove all traces of his or her individuality; not even to give a name to a child was from his perspective a crime as bad or worse than that for which men were imprisoned. "What did they call you?" he asked.

"The guards used to call me _Petit _Javert, or at least some did. My mother usually referred to me as her 'little bastard.' How does this matter, Valjean?"

A deeply troubled expression crossed Valjean's face. "Surely you were given a name at your baptism. You were baptized, were you not?" he asked anxiously.

Javert sighed. "Yes, Valjean, eventually I was. The name given to me by the prison chaplain who performed the sacrament was the same as that of my father, whom I hated even then. So I never use it. I inherited my size, strength, and blue eyes from him; from my gypsy mother, I received my dark hair, dark skin, and cunning mind. That is all I ever received from either of them, other than abuse. There is no more to be said."

That was certainly true. The former 24601 could think of nothing to say, other than how sorry he was, and he sensed instinctively that would be perhaps the worst thing he could say to this man under the circumstances.

"Stop looking at me like that, Valjean. I told you, I will not have your pity!"

"I pity the child you once were, Inspector," he answered sincerely. "I have only respect and admiration for the man you are now. You have overcome impossible odds."

Javert looked away, then rose, took hold of the fireplace poker, and jabbed at the logs a few times. Valjean, understanding that this was less a matter of attending to the fire than of avoiding the emotions that had been raised by their conversation, waited patiently. A few minutes later, the Inspector returned to the chair and faced his interlocutor squarely.

"Enough of your questioning me. If I am to remain a policeman, that should be my role, should it not?"

Valjean stared at his guest. "Did you just make a joke?"

The Inspector's lips twitched. "Forgive me if it was a poor one. I am out of practice." He turned serious, his gaze narrowing. "Do not try to divert me. What about you, Valjean? Why are you helping a man who has been your enemy for so many years?"

"I don't believe you are my enemy any longer," the older man said. "And even when I thought you were, I did not wish to see you dead. You were doing your duty as you understood it."

"You seem to have an undue fascination with my past. What about yours?"

"What do you wish to know?"

"Why do you have this strange desire to save everyone?"

"Because a very good man once saved me," Valjean answered simply. "And not everyone. I just do what I can. Mostly, than involves giving alms."

"Which is dangerous," the Inspector growled. "You should not go into the slums to indulge your do-gooding."

Valjean smiled. "One seldom finds the poor in the more affluent neighborhoods, my dear Inspector," he said gently.

His guest fidgeted. "Point taken. And with all that has transpired thus far, I think you should be allowed to call me 'Javert.'"

Valjean's smiled again, genuinely pleased.

"But you should not take the girl with you on such forays," the Inspector insisted. "The streets you frequent are unsafe. They are no place for a young lady."

His host's expression turned serious. "I would never willingly endanger Cosette. But I believe it is important to teach her charity, kindness, and compassion. What happened today was hardly typical, Javert."

The Inspector growled once more. "Well, perhaps in future, I should accompany the two of you. It would not do for this to happen again."

"Perhaps," was as far as Valjean was willing to concede, as he suspected beggars would not be willing to approach with the formidable Inspector Javert nearby.

"Is that why you tried to save the jade, years ago? Out of charity?"

The former 24601 stared at him. "Do you mean Fantine? Why else would I have tried to save her?"

Javert grimaced. "From the heartless policeman who would have arrested her," he said, a bit sarcastically. "I didn't know why you helped her, Valjean. In my experience at the time, gentlemen did not go out of their way to help prostitutes, not unless the gentleman expects to be paid in trade."

"She was a sick woman with a child and no money! She needed help."

"That is what she said when I arrested her, yes." He held up a hand to forestall speech. "Valjean, I know what you thought of me, and of my actions. You made that very clear at the time. But every person I have ever had to arrest has always had some reason why I should not carry out my duty. Her story was by no means the most heartrending, even if it were true—which most of the time, I can assure you, such stories were not."

"I wondered why you were so hard on her."

"Hard on her? I had no evidence save that of a respectable citizen's complaint. Bamatabois may have been a useless dandy and a whore-monger, but he was a respectable bourgeoisie with no police record, and he had some proof of his story in the form of scratches on his face. No one came forward to say things were other than what he claimed. And at least by arresting Fantine, I would have been getting her off the streets for a time, out of the cold and away from violent clients and vicious pimps."

"I never realized," Valjean admitted. He gave the Inspector a faint, rather sad smile. "I held that against you for a long time. Especially when you came to arrest me, right in front of her."

Javert grimaced. "And how I behaved? I admit, my actions were appalling." He took a deep breath, and the words that followed were words that the former 24601 never expected to hear from the lips of Inspector Javert. "Forgive me, Valjean. But perhaps you will allow me to explain. As you know, I had believed you to be a convict, the man who broke his parole. When I shared by concerns with my superiors, they not only refused to listen, they told me I was mad. I went to you to apologize, fully expecting you to remove me from my post—" Seeing his host was about to speak, Javert held up a hand once more to forestall any interruption. "Please, let me finish, or I never will. I know that you would never do such a thing. You *did* not. But such mercy was completely outside my experience. It made me wonder if you wanted to keep me in my position because, as the man whose foolish, arrogant mistake you had forgiven, you would feel morally superior to me. You could indulge in such a feeling every time you looked at me. I just did not understand you, Monsieur le Maire. And I did not understand your charity—if that was indeed what it was, I did not believe so at the time—to a street jade. All I knew on that occasion was that you deliberately overruled my authority, and humiliated me in front of my men."

Valjean stared at his guest. As humiliating Javert had never been his intention, he had never considered that this might be how the Inspector felt about all this. But he forced himself to remain silent, recognizing how hard it was for the other man to say all this, waiting for him to finish.

Javert took another deep breath, and this time he forced himself to make eye contact. "So when I learned that I had been right from the very beginning, that Monsieur le Maire was indeed Jean Valjean, Prisoner 24601, all I could think of was that you must be laughing at me, as my superiors had laughed at me. You and your whore, laughing at the stupid Inspector behind his back. And I most certainly did not believe you when you offered to return in three days, after having rescued her child. As I said, people always have excuses as to why I should not arrest them. For what it is worth, Valjean, I am sorry that I handled the situation the way I did."

Both men were silent for a moment, Valjean absorbing all that was said, all that he had never thought about concerning the Inspector and the latter's motivations. Javert leaned back in the chair as if drained. After a moment, he spoke quietly. "May I ask one more question?"

"You may ask as many as you like," his host said gently.

"In Toulon, you always said you stole bread to save the life of your sister's child. Was that true?"

"Yes. Did you not believe me?" Valjean was no longer offended by Javert's disbelief, as he understood it now.

"No," the Inspector said simply. "I have heard so many tales from criminals, Valjean, most of them lies. Every man in prison is innocent, at least if you believe what they have to say about it."

"I spoke the truth, Javert. And at that time, I blamed you, and every other guard, for not believing me. I no longer feel the same towards you, either," he admitted. "I understand now that you were once as poor and hungry as I, and yet, you never stole."

"You did not steal for yourself, but to save the life of a child. I believe and understand that now." The Inspector was silent for a moment before adding carefully; "There was a time not long ago when even had I believed you, such a motive would not have mattered to me. Right was right, wrong was wrong, and the law was always right. It is more complicated, I begin to see that now. But it is still hard for me to understand. The compass by which I have navigated my life is broken, and I am still at sea."

Valjean rose from his seat, extending his hand to be clasped. "Then I shall be your lighthouse, if you will allow me," he said. "Cosette and Gisquet already believe us to be friends. Can we not be so in fact?"

Javert stared at the outthrust hand for a moment, and then stood up and took it, clasping it firmly but without shaking it. "I confess I know little about friendship, or about being a friend," he muttered. "But I shall try."

"Honest as ever," his host said, smiling, and shook hands with the Inspector before releasing his hand. At that moment, there came a knock on the parlor door, and Toussaint's voice from outside, telling them that dinner was almost ready.

"You will of course join us for dinner, Javert. And spend the night again, as well."

"I could not imposition you," the Inspector protested. "I have trespassed upon your hospitality enough."

"Nonsense. The bed is still large enough for the both of us."

"I have been sleeping in your bed? With you?" Javert seemed aghast by this, and Valjean recalled that on the night he had saved the Inspector from suicide, the latter had been too much in shock to take notice of much; moreover, whenever the Inspector had awakened, Valjean himself had already been up and out of bed. So perhaps it was news to the Inspector.

Valjean grinned. "Don't worry, Javert," he said lightly. "Your virtue is safe with me."

The Inspector shot him an intense look, and for a moment, Valjean wondered if he had gone too far. And then, to his astonishment, Javert laughed.

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

29

Title: "Rescue"

Author: Darkover

Rating: T

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: I wish to thank everyone who has Followed this story, who has made it one of their Favorites, and most of all, for those who have been kind enough to review it! I also apologize for taking so long to write and post this chapter. "Real Life" has been rearing its head in an unpleasant fashion lately, and so I do not always have as much time to write fan fiction as I wish. I especially want to thank both Noelani618 and Katherine NotGreat for their interest, thoughtful comments, and helpful suggestions.

Chapter Five: "This Is All I Have Known"

~ooo0ooo~

Dinner passed much the same as luncheon had, except that the host and his guest were less ill at ease. Still, conversation was not extensive, even with Cosette's help. At first Valjean assumed his guest was silent and given only to monosyllabic responses because Javert was either bored or uncomfortable. But then he noticed how gingerly the Inspector chewed and swallowed, how he occasionally winced, how erratic his breathing was, and began to suspect that the fight the man had engaged in that afternoon was taking its toll. Cosette noticed it at the same time. "Are you unwell, Inspector?" she asked, concerned.

"It is nothing, Mademoiselle. I…" Javert's voice caught on a gasp.

Valjean rose from the table. "I shall send for the doctor."

"No! That is not necessary." The Inspector made a visible effort to pull himself together. "I am sure it is nothing."

Valjean crossed to where Javert was seated and put a hand on his shoulder. "I fear I do not share your optimism. Forgive me, but you appear rather pale—"

The Inspector straightened in his chair and pulled away from his host's touch. "All this fussing is unnecessary. I do not require a doctor."

"But Papa said you were wounded, Inspector," Cosette said. "I fear that in fighting those men today, you may have made your condition worse."

"I am certain all I need is an early night, Mademoiselle."

"That is an excellent idea," Valjean said. "You must retire early, Javert, and I shall reexamine your wounds and treat them as necessary. It is either that, or I send for the physician." Valjean spoke in a calm, even pleasant tone, but it was also clear that he meant exactly what he said.

The Inspector shot him a hostile look, quickly curtailed as he recalled the presence of Cosette. He took a deep breath, as if preparing either another protest or a verbal attack, but found himself coughing instead, wincing as he did so.

"There, you see, Inspector, both you and Papa are right," Cosette said gently. "I believe you will feel much better for an early night, and it can do no harm for him to treat your injuries."

"I see that I stand no chance with you both against me, Mademoiselle," the object of their concern told her, although he gave her a faint smile as he spoke. Valjean offered his arm to the seated man, and after a momentary hesitation, the Inspector took it, long enough to stand upright, push back his chair, and step away from the table. As soon as he regained his footing, he released the other man's arm.

It was at that moment that Toussaint entered the room to clear the table. Valjean informed her that the Inspector would be spending the night, and she nodded as if she had expected nothing else. She informed them that she had already prepared the items necessary for the nightly ablutions of both her employer and Monsieur le Inspecteur and placed them in the master bedroom. Valjean thanked her, and then instructed her to warm a glassful of milk, then to leave it in the kitchen with some honey and the medicine left earlier by the doctor. Toussaint acknowledged his order and left the room.

"I shall retire soon, too, I think," Cosette announced. She crossed to her father and kissed him on the cheek. "Good night, Papa. Sleep well."

Her father returned the kiss. "And you, my dearest."

"Good night, Inspector."

He bowed. "Good night, Mademoiselle."

Javert remained standing, gripping the back of the chair, until the girl had left the room. Valjean was just wondering if perhaps the Inspector felt too ill to move, or maybe did not recall the way to the master bedroom, when the Inspector shot him a dark look and in a voice heavy with suspicion, asked; "What are those items for?"

"Pardon?"

Javert continued to glare. "Do not be coy with me! I refer to your orders to the servant. What do you require the doctor's medicine for? Do you think you can drug me again?"

His voice had risen, and Valjean held up the palm of his hand in a placating gesture. "Peace, Javert. I know that you are in pain, and I wish to alleviate it, that is all. But you are right; I should not have administered it to you against your will, as I did previously. I know what it is like, being forced to do something against one's will."

The Inspector looked subdued at that, but Valjean could see that this remark had gotten through to him. The former 24601 said quietly; "But will you not take it willingly? We both know that you are in pain. A dose of laudanum will help to relieve it, and you will sleep the better for it."

For an instant longer Javert resisted. Valjean could see it in the other man's face, saw how his knuckles whitened on the back of the chair for an instant as he gripped it hard. But then the Inspector lowered his gaze and muttered, "All right." Valjean had to fight the urge to smile. He understood how much the Inspector hated to be vulnerable, but it was a sign that the other man was beginning to trust others—or at least, to trust him.

"Before you retire, there is something I should give to you," Valjean said.

Javert looked up again, and his eyes widened ever so slightly as Valjean took the rosary from his pocket and handed it to him. The Inspector took it and gazed at it for a moment with an indecipherable expression before putting it in his own pocket.

"I thought perhaps you might use it to say your nightly prayers," his host explained.

The Inspector shot him a look, as if to say: _You would think that. _But he merely said, "No. I do not use it for prayer."

The older man was surprised. "Then what do you use it for? And it is the same rosary I gave to you at Montreuil, is it not?"

"It is." Javert was quiet for a moment. "When you were Monsieur le Maire. I keep it as a reminder of that."

The former M. Madeleine was staggering under the thought that the Inspector might actually have retained an item for sentimental reasons when the latter blew that idea away completely by adding; "As a reminder not to be such a fool again. I respected you, Monsieur le Maire. I even…liked you. But you fooled me. Of course it was to your interest to deceive me, to keep the local police inspector on your side. It was not because you had any liking or respect for me."

The former M. Madeleine was startled. "Javert, it wasn't like that."

Now it was the Inspector who held up a hand, waving it in dismissal. "Of course it was, Valjean," he said matter-of-factly. "You had no reason to like me. I am not a likable man. But that fact was of no concern to me, so long as I did my duty. I realize now that from your perspective, it was necessary for you to deceive me, and I no longer blame you for that. I admit that when I realized you were Jean Valjean, I was angry, but even at the time I blamed myself more than I did you. I was a fool to think there could have been a chance of true friendship between us."

_Dear God, the harm I have done to this man. As much or more than he has ever done to me, and I did not even have the excuse of duty! _ "Javert…" he said helplessly, wanting to make amends, wanting to make the other man understand that the gift of the rosary had been just that, a small present casually bestowed, not an attempt to manipulate or deceive.

Javert just shook his head, looking tired. "Valjean, I know it was my fault for hoping for anything else. I just keep the rosary as a reminder to myself not to be so stupid."

"You have never been stupid, Javert."

The Inspector gave him a twisted smile. "A reminder to myself not to be sentimental, then."

"Trusting others is neither sentimental nor a fault," Valjean told him gently. "And we have agreed to be friends, have we not? Perhaps you should keep it as a reminder that we have become friends at last."

The Inspector was quiet for a moment, as if considering this. "Perhaps."

"And perhaps someday you may wish to use it for prayer."

"I do not think the Almighty listens to any prayers of mine. He has never done so before."

"Perhaps you were asking for the wrong things," his host suggested, very gently. "We all have a tendency to ask God for what we want. But He gives us what we _**need." **_

"I don't know, Valjean," the Inspector answered. He passed a hand over his face, looking unutterably weary, and Valjean was suddenly ashamed of himself for continuing to press his guest so much. He stepped forward quickly and placed a hand on Javert's shoulder, giving it a supportive clasp. He hoped it was a good sign that the Inspector did not pull away, although perhaps the man was just too exhausted to do any such thing. He already looked as if it was taking most of his strength just to remain on his feet.

"Forgive me, Javert. Here I am preaching at you, when all you want to do is rest. Please go to the master bedroom and get ready for bed. I will fetch what I need to tend to your wounds and then join you there."

The Inspector let his hand drop, nodded dully, and turned slowly to leave the room.

"Do you wish me to guide you there?"

Javert shot him a look that momentarily made him look like the Inspector whom Valjean had known and feared for decades. "Valjean, I may not be at my best, but I am neither a child nor an invalid. I will manage."

"Of course."

Both men left the dining room. The master of the house went to the kitchen, where he found Toussaint had done as instructed. The milk was sitting in a covered pan on the stove. Valjean poured it into a goblet, added a dose of the laudanum, and then added a hefty dollop of honey to relieve the bitterness of the drug. He then assembled the first aid items he had used to treat the Inspector's wounds when he first brought the man home. He found himself thinking; _That was such a short time ago, yet it seems like another lifetime. For Javert, I suppose it was. _

Valjean then continued on to the master bedroom. Finding the door slightly ajar, he rapped on it lightly.

"Come in, it is your room after all," the Inspector's voice said quietly from within.

The master of the house smiled a bit at that, although his smile faded somewhat at the sight that greeted him as he entered. His guest was seated on the edge of the bed. Javert had removed all clothing save his trousers, and hung his uniform in the wardrobe. While a multitude of bruises were exposed to view, they had faded from the dark purple, almost black they had been, to a paler purple-yellowish combination. The welts were more than half healed, including the marks on his neck and wrists where the ropes had burned him. Nevertheless, it was still a painful sight. Javert was also clearly more alert and aware than he had been on the night of his suicide attempt, but he seemed nearly as weary.

"Your wounds are beginning to heal," Valjean said. "But you are not well yet." He held out the goblet containing the dose of laudanum. "Drink this before we begin. It will give the laudanum time to work."

Javert blinked and studied the goblet for a moment; a small frown of bemusement briefly crossed his face. His expression indicated that he found something slightly familiar about this scenario, but could not quite place it. Again, Valjean wondered privately how much, if anything, the Inspector recalled from the night of the latter's attempted suicide. At any rate, the man asked no questions; he merely accepted the draught silently and drank it, placing the emptied goblet on the nightstand afterwards and submitting to examination by his host. He was quiet as Valjean treated his wounds. Save for a faint hiss as his host re-taped his ribs, he continued to be stoically silent.

When it was all done, Valjean wiped his hands on a cloth, and then placed one hand on Javert's shoulder. "I shall go and make my own ablutions while you change into your nightshirt."

"It is your nightshirt, Valjean, not mine," the other man responded, sounding subdued.

His host smiled reassuringly, clapping him lightly on the shoulder as he withdrew his hand. "For as long as you are my guest, Javert, the nightshirt is yours. You are welcome here." He was surprised to realize how much it was true. At some point, without his quite realizing how, Javert's welfare had become important to him.

"Thank you," the other man said quietly. Valjean nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

When he returned some minutes later, clad in a nightshirt himself, he found Javert sitting up in bed on the opposite side, nearest the window. Javert's head was turned away, and Valjean wondered if the man was praying after all, or perhaps just lost in thought. But as he moved to draw the curtains, the Inspector's voice stopped him.

"No! Do not draw the curtains, Valjean." There was a momentary pause as the Inspector added belatedly, "Please."

Valjean turned from the window to look at his roommate. "Why?"

"The stars," the other man said, as if that explained everything.

"You wish to see the stars?"

Javert nodded slightly. "With the curtains open, I can see them from here. Of course, there are no bars on this window. When I was a child, I would look at them. Through the bars. My mother's cell had a window."

"That was fortunate."

"It may not have been just good fortune. We got a better cell after my mother serviced one of the guards."

"Oh," was all his host could think of to say.

The Inspector did not seem to have heard; he was gazing out the window. "I have always loved the stars. They are so beautiful, each one in its place, lighting up the night…and it is a sight that anyone can look at, even the half-gypsy bastard of two criminals." The last words were delivered softly, almost as if Javert was speaking only to himself.

Valjean suspected the other man's loosened tongue was the result of the laudanum beginning to take effect, and wishing to spare the Inspector the experience of feeling embarrassed in the morning, he suggested kindly; "Why don't you lie down now? You should rest."

Javert did so. Valjean moved to the opposite side of the bed, pulling back the covers and getting in before blowing out the candles that rested on the large table next to his bed.

Valjean stretched out. He felt surprisingly relaxed, and was just smiling at the irony of this as he was lying next to the man who had been the bane of his life for so long, when Javert spoke up suddenly, as if in mid-thought. "It is different, is it not?"

"What is?"

"How you relate to Cosette. Rather than to her mother. In Fantine's case, your concern was based on compassion. And guilt." Valjean started, but the Inspector did not seem to notice, and only continued thoughtfully, "But you truly love the girl, do you not? To you, she is not just an act of duty or charity. As her mother was. As I am."

"Javert—"

But the other man's mind seemed already to have moved on to another topic. "I have told you much of my past, Valjean, but I know very little about yours. Tell me."

In the darkness, the former 24601 smiled. Javert's drowsy voice made the words half a plea, half a command, like a child wanting a bedtime story, although Valjean doubted that the Inspector would find such a comparison flattering. "Where should I start?"

"Tell me of your childhood."

"It was normal enough, for one of my background and class. My father was a pruner. He taught me his trade. He died when I was still a boy, falling out of a tree he was trimming at the time. My mother had fallen ill of milk fever and died a couple of years earlier, so when I was orphaned, my older sister and her husband took me in. My sister, Jeanne—we were both named after my father—and I were the only ones of my parents' children to survive." His smile faded somewhat as he wondered if that were indeed so. What had become of his sister and her children after he had been imprisoned? They had been at the brink of starvation even before he had been arrested and incarcerated. "I was reared more as her oldest child than as her brother. I had just reached an age where I could work for a living when her husband died too, leaving her a widow with seven small children. So it fell to me to provide for us all."

"Seven children. A large family."

"Not so many, really. Many of our neighbors had families larger than ours. Peasants tend to have large families."

"Supporting them all must have been quite a responsibility." Javert's tone was half appalled, half wistful, as if he could only imagine what it was like to have a family.

"Not really. It was expected, you see, as I was now the oldest male. Indeed, I expected it of myself. For the first time, I felt like a man. So I took a certain pride in it, even though I sometimes felt it to be burdensome. It is the custom of the folk of Faverolles to help each other." That was something he had almost forgotten, in the dog-eat-dog world of life as a prisoner in Toulon. He added, "And I did not consider it much of a burden until there was no work. That was when I became desperate, you see."

"I do now," said the former guard at Toulon, his voice low. Both men were silent for a moment. "It is strange, that we have come to this," he added, and again, he sounded as if he were speaking to himself more than to his host. His voice was slurring a bit, and then Valjean heard Javert take an exceptionally deep breath and bestir himself slightly, as if trying to force himself to remain awake. "Did you see your sister and her children again, after you served your sentence?"

"I tried to do so." Valjean was silent for an instant, thinking; _Another failure on my part. _"But by then, they were no longer living where they had been, and I could find no one who was able to tell me where they had gone. And I had to focus on survival. So after a time, I simply…stopped looking."

"So you do not know what happened to them."

"No." Valjean might have left it at that. Perhaps it was the sheltering darkness, perhaps it was because he had never talked to anyone about this, anyone at all, since his release from Toulon, but he admitted; "To tell you the truth, after nineteen years with no visits, no communication of any kind, I had forgotten what they looked like. And now, after all this time, I no longer even recall the children's names."

"I am sorry." Both men were silent for a time. Valjean was just wondering if the Inspector had gone to sleep when the latter spoke again. "I did not forget you. When we met at Montreuil, ostensibly for the first time, I knew there was something familiar about you."

Valjean chuckled. "I know. I was terrified." That he could admit it now, because he was lying companionably alongside the man whom he had feared, sometimes hated, and fled from for so long, was surely a sign of the absurdity of the world. "I thought for sure you had come to arrest me, and if it were not for the fact that there were other gendarmes outside the factory, I would have run away out the back door. But there were, so I felt I had no choice but to brazen it out. Did you really recognize me right away?"

"No, although I felt certain there was something about you that was familiar. I have a very good memory, especially for faces," the Inspector said, not bragging, just stating a fact. "You quite put me in my place, with your remark about *my* face, however."

Valjean was startled anew. "What do you mean?"

"You said, 'Your face is not a face I would forget.'"

"Yes? What of it? I could hardly admit that I knew you when you were a guard and I a prisoner at Toulon, but I did not wish to lie, either." He laughed a little, ruefully. "I was sure you would know immediately if I did!"

"I assumed you were telling me that I was ugly. Or that I was not worth remembering."

Valjean was again surprised. _Will I ever completely understand this man? _"I am sorry. That was not my meaning at all."

Javert seemed to shrug in the dark. "No matter. As a half-breed Gypsy, I was accustomed to such snubs. Social superiors often said such things to me as a warning not to get above myself."

_This is a night of revelations, _the former 24601 thought, realizing that apparently there had been many times when life and society had been as unkind and unwelcoming to the Inspector than it had to him. _Perhaps more so. I at least had my family, growing up. And I have Cosette. Who has Javert had for support, all these years? _

Suddenly, he asked, "Javert, have you a wife? Have you ever married?"

"No," the other man replied, his tone indicating that he thought that a ridiculous question. "Neither prison guards nor policemen make very much money, and I always felt I could not afford to support a wife, nor the children that would follow. And there were…other considerations."

"What other considerations?" Strangely, Valjean would never before have had the courage to ask his former nemesis such personal questions, but now his curiosity was piqued. He had answered the Inspector's questions, let the latter answer a few of his.

His guest was unfazed. "I should think that was obvious. As a half-breed gypsy, women do not find me particularly attractive, and at any rate I did not wish to defile an honest woman with my gypsy and criminal blood, or to pass it on by having children. I am tainted. It is best that my parents' line ends with me."

"Men are not born bad, Javert."

"Why did *you* never marry then, Valjean?" the Inspector asked with some asperity.

"Because I did not wish to inflict my past on a wife and children—_Touché," _Valjean admitted, realizing what he had just said. "There was always the chance that my past could be revealed at any time. How could I inflict such a fate on a woman? But I was not *born* bad, Javert, and neither were you."

"I did not immediately remember you as Jean Valjean, or even as a former convict at all," the Inspector said, as if there had been no digression in their conversation. His words were coming slower now; he sounded barely awake. "At the time I presented my papers to you…Monsieur le Maire…I would not have believed any more than my superiors did…that such an exalted man was a former prisoner. Much less one who…broke his parole…" There was silence after that, and Javert' breathing had deepened. Valjean raised himself up on one elbow and looked down into the other man's face. Javert had fallen asleep.

Valjean lowered himself back down to the bed, pulled the covers up a bit more securely about them both, and gazed up at the ceiling. He prayed; _Gracious Lord, will I ever understand this man? For such a long time, I believed him to be all-powerful, and I hated and feared him for his pursuit of me. Now I see him just as a man, no worse than any other man, and a man who has apparently had a life every bit as hard as my own. I no longer fear him, and with your help, I shall cease to judge him. I have promised to be his friend, but I know so little about friendship. Please, help me to be a good friend to him. _He paused. _And if it is not too much to ask, dear Lord, help him to wish to be a friend to me. _

Valjean closed his eyes and went to sleep.

~ooo0ooo~

"_**No!" **_

Valjean's eyes flew open at the cry. It had come from Javert, who was flailing about next to him, clearly in the grip of a nightmare. Valjean sat up quickly and shook him. "Javert, wake up. You are having a bad dream."

The other man sat bolt upright in bed, choking back a cry. Gasping, he looked around wildly for a moment. In the moonlight, Valjean could see wetness on the Inspector's face, and was not at all certain it was only from sweat. In the next moment, Javert turned away, hiding his face in his hands. His shoulders shook.

Valjean put an arm around those shoulders. "Javert, what is it?" he asked softly.

"Nightmare." The word was muffled.

"Tell me."

Javert did not answer immediately. Valjean waited patiently. After a few moments, Javert let his hands drop, and then wiped his face on the sleeve of his nightshirt, making a visible effort to pull himself together. "A-about Antoine. A guard in the prison where my mother served her sentence, the prison where I was born. He…" Javert swallowed. "He used to beat me when I was a child."

"Why?"

"Because I had broken a rule and deserved punishment. Because I needed discipline. Because I was a gypsy's child, and the bad blood must be beaten from me." Javert made all these assertions, including the last, in an automatic tone, as if they were lessons long since prescribed to memory. "Sometimes just because he was having a bad day. But usually because I deserved it." This last assertion, too, was delivered automatically, as if it were something long repeated, although his tone lacked much conviction. "Why should I dream of this now?" he cried suddenly. "I have not thought about him in years. I have tried hard not to think about him!" Javert stopped suddenly, as if with those last words he had surprised himself.

Valjean opened the drawer of his nightstand, retrieved a pocket-handkerchief, folded it and dampened it with some of the water from a pitcher by the bed. Then he turned to Javert and gently applied it to the other man's forehead. "Just relax. Take deep breaths."

Javert took the handkerchief from him, wiped his face and neck with it, and then handed it back. Valjean took the pitcher once more, poured a draught of water into the cup on the nightstand, and extended it silently to his guest. Javert drank it, and then handed it back. "Thank you," he mumbled.

His host nodded. _The fact that Javert is allowing himself to be cared for, says a great deal about the intensity of the dream, and how much it has shaken him. _The older man said gently, "You have had a difficult day. Perhaps the attack in the streets triggered such memories."

"No. Why should it? I fought those thugs off, I beat them, they did not beat me," the Inspector said dismissively. "More likely it is the laudanum."

"You are not accustomed to drugs?"

"I am not accustomed to anything that makes me lose control, Valjean," the Inspector said, a bit coldly. Then he exhaled, ran a shaking hand over his face and shivered. "Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb your sleep as well."

"That is all right." Valjean began to rub the other man's back in slow, tender circles, a soothing gesture he had often applied in the past to Cosette, when as a child she had suffered nightmares, or otherwise been frightened. Javert went completely still for a moment, but then relaxed into the touch as if he needed the comfort it brought so much that he was helpless to do anything else.

"Tell me about Antoine."

Javert took a deep breath. "He was a guard at the prison where I was born. When I was a child, he was a guard on the women's side. It was a double prison, the men in one part of the building, the women on the other."

Choosing his words with care, Valjean said; "Was he the guard who was responsible for your mother's getting a better cell?"

"Antoine?" Javert snorted, as if the idea was a mad one. "Hardly. He despised women, and gypsies too. He would not have allowed my mother to touch him under any circumstances."

"He was homosexual?"

"No—at least, I do not think so. He detested women, but in a misogynistic way. Or perhaps it had been so long since he had encountered any honest women, he had come to despise the entire sex. I do not know. He was a very big man, tall and broad, with very large hands and feet. And an even larger truncheon," Javert added, trying without much success to laugh. "I should know, he used it often enough on me when I was a child."

Valjean did not smile at the feeble joke. "You must have hated him."

"No," Javert insisted. "He was teaching me right from wrong. How else was I to learn, if not by punishment?"

"There are far better ways of teaching right from wrong, Javert, especially to a child."

"Who else was there to teach me, if not the guards? Certainly my parents made no effort to do so. Antoine was the head guard at the prison throughout most of my childhood." As Valjean continued to regard him steadily, Javert fidgeted. "I admit that I did not like being beaten. But when I deserved it—"

"No child deserves to be beaten, Javert. And if you looked up to him, then that is all the more reason why he should have treated you with kindness."

Javert shook his head. "You do not understand. It was Antoine who protected me from my father. I saw my father but seldom, and once, when I was very small, he…" To Valjean's astonishment, Javert's hands began to tremble.

"Javert? What did your father do?"

"He was going to sell me." The Inspector took a deep breath, and made a massive effort at self-control. "Or perhaps 'rent' me is a more accurate way of putting it. He was going to trade my body to some of the other male inmates in return for pay. Antoine came upon us in the nick of time. My father was holding me down—" Javert stopped as if unable to go on, and put his head in his hands again. After a moment, he lowered his hands and was able to face his host directly. "So you see, Valjean, I did not hate Antoine. Regardless of how much he beat me, he still saved me. And now you understand why I *did* hate my father."

Without a word, Valjean took Javert into his arms in a fierce but comforting hug, as if the other man were a brother. For an instant the Inspector froze before hesitantly returning the embrace. "I am so sorry," Valjean said quietly into the other man's ear, before releasing him a moment later and kissing him on the forehead. "That should never have happened to you."

"The fact that I was not molested was due to Antoine," Javert said simply.

"Was there no one else who tried to teach you right from wrong?" _Preferably without beating it into you, _Valjean thought.

"There…there was a priest. _Pere _Michel. He was the one who baptized me. He taught me my catechism, and also taught me how to read and write. But he was too trusting. He…" Javert closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. "He was killed during the Revolution. When mobs were going about the countryside, killing all those with 'soft hands.' And there was another guard, Claude. Most of the other guards took their lead from Antoine, paying no attention to me unless it was to administer punishment, but Claude was sometimes kind to me, even when I did not obey the rules perfectly." Javert was quiet for a moment. "But Claude got killed by prisoners. Antoine did not."

_Which taught you that trust and kindness were weaknesses, never to be indulged. And that right and wrong were solely a matter of following the rules, obeying the law, _Valjean thought, saddened.

Javert shivered suddenly. In the moonlight, he appeared pale and ill. "Why am I dreaming about this now?" he demanded, and then whispered, as if to himself; "God help me, I believe I am going mad." 

Again, Valjean put a comforting arm around the other man's shoulders. "You are not going mad. But you are changing, Javert, and change is always difficult, even when it is for our good."

Javert stared at him. "Claude used to tell me sometimes, that Antoine was punishing me for my own good."

_And Claude was the *kind* one? Dear God! _Aloud, Valjean said firmly, "Enough talk of punishment. You are a man now, Javert, and you will not be punished again."

"That is what I tried to tell Antoine, the last time he beat me." Javert wiped his face again. "It was just after one of your escape attempts, I do not recall which one. But it occurred on my watch, and Antoine tried to beat me, as he had done so many times before. I grew up to be a strapping young man, but he was still bigger."

Valjean was astounded, for so many reasons. An image suddenly came to his mind of Javert as the latter had been, when he first came to Toulon as a guard, hardly more than a boy. "He tried to beat you? And for what another—" (_I) _"—had done? Why was such a thing permitted?"

The Inspector shrugged. "Antoine was head of all the guards in the prison by then; his authority was almost absolute. I suppose he still regarded me as something of the gypsy child of criminals that I had been. And your escape took place while on my watch, so it was true that I deserved—"

"No," Valjean cut him off. "Do not say it. You did not deserve punishment, especially not for what I did."

The Inspector gave him a small, humorless smile. "Well, Valjean, by then I considered myself a man, and I…resisted. It was not pleasant, but no one has beaten me since." He looked sharply at his host. "And I begin to know you, Valjean, so I tell you now; do not start feeling guilty about that incident. The man you are now is not to blame for the fact that as a young guard, I failed in my duty."

Valjean smiled. "Agreed, provided you also realize that you do not deserve punishment every time you make a mistake."

Javert sighed softly. Both men were quiet for a moment, absorbed in their own thoughts as they remembered those days. Suddenly, Valjean exclaimed, "The Dandy!"

The Inspector looked at him questioningly.

"The Dandy," Valjean repeated, with a sort of satisfaction. "I believe this Antoine was the one we called by that nickname. We never knew his true name, of course." Javert nodded; the prisoners were not encouraged to know the true names of the guards, nor anything personal about their captors. Valjean had not known Javert's true name until the latter told him, as part of the warning he had given 24601 when the latter got his ticket of leave. The prisoners were of course known by number more frequently than by name: an experience that was dehumanizing for both sides. But of course, the inmates still made up their own epithets for the guards. Valjean continued, "It was a sarcastic nickname. He was so thoroughly ugly, and he seemed to hate women."

"An accurate description," his former guard admitted. "Did the convicts have a nickname for me?"

His host felt a bit uneasy. "Javert, morning will be here soon enough. Why don't we lie down now…"

"Tell me," the other man insisted.

Valjean sighed. "The Gypsy."

There was a stunned silence. Valjean looked at the other man cautiously, trying to see his expression in the moonlight. But Javert's only reaction was to say in surprise, "Truly?" before laughing out loud.

Valjean was simultaneously relieved and amazed. To have heard Javert laugh in genuine humor and amusement, was something that he had never expected to experience in a lifetime, much less twice in one day! _Surely this is a day of miracles, gracious Lord!_

"It was because you were dark-skinned, and rather solitary. You never asked for help from anyone, even the other guards. None of us realized…"

"That I had gypsy blood in fact?" The Inspector shook his head, but he was still smiling; his host could see it in the moonlight. "Valjean, the universe is so absurd, sometimes I can almost believe in your idea that God loves us more than He judges us."

The older man was startled, but pleased. "Good," he said, simply and warmly. "But now I believe we should lie down and rest, Javert. Morning will be here soon enough."

They both did so, with the older man drawing the covers over them both. Valjean could feel that the Inspector was more relaxed than the man had been previously, and not long afterwards, he knew from the other's breathing that Javert had fallen asleep. Valjean smiled in the darkness, closed his own eyes, and relaxed. Within minutes, he too had fallen asleep. There were no more bad dreams or memories for either man that night.

TBC…


End file.
